


The Window (Part II)

by starzandstrip3s



Category: Batman (1966), Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham - All Media Types, The LEGO Batman Movie (2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Bad Decisions, Bad Jokes, Becca is a good sister, Crying, Emmy needs to not break the sound barrier, Family Dynamics, Fanfiction, Inspired Characters, Kid Fic, LGBTQ Character, Meet the Family, Mentioned Rogues Gallery (Batman), Origin Story, Sequel, So much angst, Teen Angst, The Rogues Gallery (Batman), villain forshadowing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22835389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starzandstrip3s/pseuds/starzandstrip3s
Summary: Years prior to cheekily picking out the name "Calendar Man" to prowl the streets of Gotham, Johnny Daye is your typical kid growing up in a midwest small town. But, as rosy as this may seem at times, one Friday night showed him that his days of a carefree life were numbered.





	The Window (Part II)

**Author's Note:**

> "One unrepaired broken window is a signal that no one cares, and so breaking more windows costs nothing."  
> -James Q. Wilson
> 
> This is a companion sequel to "The Window", that I wrote in regards to Ethan/Zodiac's perspective on the same day. I encourage you to read that one first, but both can be read separately as well. Thanks for stopping by, notes are always welcome! :)

Scuffing my feet on the grass, bat grasped firmly between my hands, I wait for my sister to pitch. The sun is setting quickly in the distance, our shadows stretching across the lawn. The spring breeze carries the smell of buttery chicken from the kitchen window, and my stomach growls loudly. It won’t be long before mom comes out onto the porch and flashes the two finger salute. 

I continue to stand there, my whole body tense. Tryouts for this years summer team are on Monday, and I need to hit farther than anyone else there. 

Especially Dylan Reed. 

Dylan is the long-time pitcher of the Westdale Wendigos. I can’t stand him. 

Always prancing around with a smug look on his face, as if he somehow owns the field by being just over an inch taller than the rest of us, his spirit animal being a massive gaping asshole. I hear he volunteers at the soup kitchen on weekends, which makes him seem almost human. However, I wouldn’t be surprised if he put gross shit in it when no one’s looking, or dumps some in the garbage so more people starve. Last season, our shortstop got out because Dylan made up a fault and yelled about for a solid fifteen minutes, until our coach took our player off the field. Our team ended up losing because we were so mad about it and kept messing up. I’m still mad about it, obviously, and its been months. That’s how I knew getting better than him is what had to be done for revenge. 

Just goes to show how pressure makes diamonds, even baseball ones, and you don’t need an asshole like him to make it happen. 

Blinking out of my rant, I realize nothing has been thrown yet. Mom then comes out onto the porch, gives the salute, and goes through the back gate to probably find my dad in the garage.

“Becca!” I call over to her, hitting my bat on the ground a couple of times. “Just go already!” 

Her shadow lolls back its head, and I can just tell she is rolling her eyes.

“I was waiting for _you_!”

“I was ready!” 

“Yeah, sure,” she says flatly, knowing perfectly well that I was not even close to paying attention, but I wasn’t going to admit that. 

“On three, okay?” 

“Okay,” I shout back, getting into stance again. 

"One, two.....two and an eighth...”

Loosening my grip, I drop the bat to my side.

“Really?!” 

“Three!” she cries out of nowhere, throwing a pitch straight at me. I fumble with the bat and manage to hit it right at the last second. It sails impressively over the lawn, arching high back towards Becca - and then cracks into the kitchen window. 

Becca gasps, mouth open as she watches the ball fall from the glass and roll into a rosebush below. She turns to me, while I still hold the bat out towards her post-swing.

Not being able to help myself, I grin back at her. 

“That was pretty good, huh?”

“Johnny!” she whines, looking back to the window and then at me. “Why’d you do that?” 

“Did you see my reaction time?”

I swing the bat casually over my shoulder like an athlete in a movie, then give her a cool glance. She has her arms crossed, frowning just over my head. 

Looking back at me a moment later, she lets out a sigh.

“We-”

“No, you wouldn’t have, it was that fast.”

“Johnny!” Becca states firmly, palms pushing the air and my nerve to the ground. “We’re so grounded, you know that?”

“You need to relax, Beccs,” I reply, starting the long hike back to the porch. She catches up to me and matches my pace as we make our way through the manicured lawn. “Just take it one step at a time. We get to the house, hide what we can. If it’s brought up - okay. We tell a story. If not-”

I put my arm around her shoulder. 

“Home free, baby.”

“Yeah, good luck with that. As if that’s worked before.” 

I pretend to look offended, and get an eyebrow raise back because she knows the getting caught to home free ratio isn’t promising. 

“Ah, but this is a whole new opportunity. Just trust me on this one.”

“We’ll see.” 

  
*****

  
“And, thank you, Lord, for this meal that you have provided graciously for our family. Amen,” Mom finishes with a nod of her head. 

“Amen,” we all mutter, before digging into our plates like rabid animals coming out of a trance. I shove a piece of marinated chicken breast in my mouth, then smother it in garlic mashed potatoes, closing my eyes in a religious experience only home cooked food can provide. 

“Holy crap, that’s good,” I moan through a mouthful, spearing the rest of the chicken and staring at it lovingly. 

Dad observes me over his forkful of broccoli.

“Seriously, Johnny?” 

“What?” I answer, shrugging in reply. “Compliments to the chef.”

I give an actual compliment to the chef about the chicken to prove my point, but it goes over her curly head. 

“So,” Mom says lightly, choosing to ignore us and turning to Emmy on her left, “How did rehearsal go today, honey?”

Emmy thinks about it while she chews, taking longer than necessary. She makes a show of taking a sip of her water before responding with, “It was good, but Mr. Holloway said that I should practice slowing down a bit. Something about _a trumpet is only sweet in sound if it doesn’t break the sound barrier_.” 

“In other words, a little less effort?” Dad asks with a chuckle. “Probably a good rule to go by, don’t want to blow anyone’s eardrums out at the show.” 

Becca smiles at her across the table reassuringly.

“Just keep practicing like he says, and you’ll be fine.”

I snort, stabbing at a carrot with my fork.

“And if you can’t keep the volume in check, no one at the talent show will be able to hear you, anyway.” 

“Rude,” Emmy sniffs, looking over to either parent to reprimand.

“Jonathan, be nice to your sister, please,” Mom cues in, peering at me from the end of the table. She then goes back to cutting her broccoli with her fork, making it into thin slices. 

“Besides,” Emmy muses with a flip of her bobbed golden hair, “It’s not like you know what talent looks like in the first place. What can you do that’s so special?” 

I pause in taking a sip of my drink, instead putting it back down and lacing my hands on the doily tablecloth.

“I play guitar. We’re both musicians, here.” 

“Yeah, so what.” 

“Well, music should bring happiness, not cause a wish for a quick and hopefully painless death.”

She glares at me with a practiced scowl. 

“So,” I continue, “That probably is a good reason to think there’s a little bit of talent there. At least, compared to you.” 

“He never said it was that bad, moron.”

I widen my eyes, shaking my head at her.

“Honey, I think he _did_.”

“Okay, that’s enough from both of you,” Dad snaps, and Mom utters a sarcastic _Amen_. 

“Have you heard from the others today?” Becca asks Mom, referring to our four sisters not living at home anymore. 

Mom straightens in her seat, practically glowing with excitement. I take the distraction to go over to the sink to scrape the rest of my plate, the broccoli, into the garbage while also inspecting the window for a second. As soon as we got through the back door, we closed the curtains just before Emmy came downstairs, and hoped for the best. 

“Yes, actually!” I hear behind me, as I rinse off my plate in the sink with a sponge. “Rach called this morning...Michael proposed!” 

The girls squeal with excitement as I make my way back over, plopping down in my seat. I glance over at my dad, who looks prouder than ever.

“No way!” Emmy coos, and holds her chest from spilling out sentimental goo. “That’s _amazing_.”

Mom beams, leaning back in her chair, probably reflecting on her life up until this circle of life moment.

“Only took three years. She’ll be down in a couple weeks to start planning some basics, like the guest list. If you’re good, all of you are invited.” 

She catches my gaze as she turns to leave, eyes turning mushy.

“Oh, Johnny, you’re going to look so handsome in a suit!”

I smile closed mouthed back, as that’s all I can force out. The idea of a suit is something that makes me feel itchy. The only time I have considered wearing one is my funeral, where it wouldn’t matter.

Just as Mom is plating some sugar cream pie by the counter, Dad leans over and pokes my arm.

“Just wait, kiddo. It’ll be the best day of your life.” 

“Rachel’s wedding?”

“ _Your_ wedding. When I first saw your mother down the aisle, I just about died on the spot. She was both the most beautiful and terrifying thing I had ever seen.” 

We both look over at her, placing pie in front of Becca with a napkin and fork. 

“And then, before you know it, you’re a family man.”

I pause, unsure of how to phrase what I want to say. This wasn’t a conversation I planned on having tonight, or ever, really.

“But, I don’t- what if,” I take a breath and spin my leather cuff in a smooth rhythm, “You know, _know_ what I even want to do yet.” 

He tilts his head at me, so I go on.

“I could just live the bachelor life. Travel. Go on adventures. That sort of thing.” 

He puts his hand on my shoulder, and gives it a squeeze.

“There’s someone for everyone, just as God intended,” he says softly, and when I look him in the eye, I want to believe him.

“Besides,” he continues as his dessert is placed down, cutting off a piece, “Any girl would be lucky to have you, son. And as soon as you meet the one, you’ll want to settle down and carry on like the rest of us have, just watch.” 

He takes a bite and looks me over, and I cross my arms to stop fiddling. 

“I swear, though. If you have grandkids that are as rambunctious as you, I’m not babysitting.” 

“I dunno, Dad.”

“What about that Jessica girl?” he asks, gesturing vaguely with his fork.

“Jamie?”

“Yeah, her. She seemed nice.”

“Dad, we were only partners for a science project.” 

“Well, you gotta start somewhere.”

I grimace, not hungry for my slice in front of me. 

“I’m only twelve,” I say quietly to my lap. 

“Just trying to be a wingman, buddy. You may be the youngest, but becoming a man happens fast.”

Up until this point, my stomach had been churning uncomfortably. But now, I could feel the shift in gears launch the contents of my gut slowly back the way they came. A warning like the two finger salute, but one that was less familiar. I smile politely, preparing myself to leave the table and this conversation. As long as my face doesn’t scream _RUN_.

“I don’t need your help, honestly. Thanks anyway.” 

He laughs with an amused twist of a smile, placing his fork down at probably a normal volume, but the sound vibrates crazy loud. 

“Suit yourself. My old man told me how to make the family proud, and nothing he said failed. But, if you know better, by all means.”

I know he’s joking, but that pisses me off. A lot. How can he just sit there and casually wave me off every time, patting me on the head like I’m defected for giving my opinion? And when I say or do something that works for everyone, it’s not like it’s seen anyway. Why do I even bother? I would rather fight it out, spit out bloody truths of what I really think of his “help”, shake him over and over into giving in for once, instead of him pretending I agree to not mess anything up. At least with screaming back, you know the fire inside you is still there, and not put out just yet. I’ve seen that happen to so many people around this town. It actually scares me shitless to think that could be me, too. It probably will. 

The heat in my gut bubbles faintly, replacing the bile creeping up my throat for a moment. 

Feeling my jaw clench, I reply with a stern “I do know better.”

We stare at each other for what feels like ages, dark eyes searching for what the other will do next with equal stubbornness. His widen for a fraction for a second, like he actually sees me, and then it’s gone when he looks away to the other side of the table. 

“You hear that, Lottie? The boy is practically taking pen to paper notes over here.”

Mom looks up from a deep conversation with the girls, most likely about the wedding that will be the only topic of conversation for the next how many years until it happens. 

“Pardon?”

“I’m helping your son become a man over here, he’s eating it up faster than I can deliver!”

She glances over to me, smiling knowingly before looking at him.

“Did you get to the part about him inheriting the house?”

Smacking a hand over my mouth, I run clumsily to the bathroom, only half-remembering the dizzying blur of shutting the door and hurling into the toilet on my knees.

I hear my parents calling after me from the dining room in between heaves, between desperate gulps of air, and thoughts swirling in my head.

I puke and puke until there is nothing left, except the aching burn in my throat and a feeling of exhaustion that hangs above like a suffocating blanket. After that, I don’t remember anything. I don’t faint, just tune everything out. 

Collapsing on the floor, I notice the voices from the other side of the door have faded away. All that I can hear now is the grandfather clock in the hallway, and the slow drip of the leaky faucet that matches my slowing heartbeat.

And for some reason, maybe because I had nothing left to puke up, I start to cry. 

No, sob. 

I don’t know why, it just happens. And, I can’t be bothered to hold myself back. I lay there for a long time, crying on the bathroom floor. A really pathetic thing to do, but here we are. Not thinking of anything in particular, but still feeling so much and have no idea what to do with it, except let it pool on the tile to stare back at me, and cause the whole thing to start all over again.

When I run out of strength to cry too, I stay on the floor and look at the wall. I still don’t know how much time had passed, but am aware that it’s enough. Sitting up stiffly, I glance in the bowl and flush, regretting how much I eat for once, but glad to get rid of the evidence.

As I’m splashing my face with water from the leaky sink, I try to clear my mind and reset. Tell myself to go out there and sit down, and tell them that everything is fine. 

Because it is.

It totally is.

Never been better.

Maybe it won’t be so bad. What he says. What if I’m overthinking this, and should just push through the motions because it’s all a part of growing up, being unsure about most things, and they know what works. They just do, because they did it and-

A shout interrupts from the other room, making me jump away from my grip on the sink.

“Mark my words, if this window isn’t fixed, he is just going to break them all!” my mother cries in frustration, the sound of the back door banging shut. 


End file.
